


Thomas Thorne Doesn't Die at the End

by dechagny



Series: but no ghost looms; [8]
Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, F/M, One Shot, Request Meme, Shotgun Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dechagny/pseuds/dechagny
Summary: Hi there! This drabble was written as a request on Tumblr. You can find me and this work under user @annaobyrne.If you want to request an AU drabble/one-shot, please leave me a message and I'll get back to you, though it may take a few days.You can also find me on Twitter: @bethany1marie.I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Isabelle Higham/Thomas Thorne
Series: but no ghost looms; [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038219
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Thomas Thorne Doesn't Die at the End

Every footstep seemed to be taken in slow-motion. Even the wind moved slowly – whipping hair, cravats, and skirts dramatically and sending the foliage into hushed whispers. The bushes’ quiet discussion was the only sound, for every breathing person of flesh and blood gathered in the garden were too full of suspense to sigh a single word.

Thomas stared ahead of him, resolute, gun poised in front of his face, mouthing his step count silently, hoping no-one could see the light tremor creeping through his arms and the sinewy portions of his hands and slender fingers. Out of his periphery, he could see Isabelle’s bright candy coloured dress and her looking like a sweet and delectable, but breakable, thing made of pure sugar. Though he was doing this for her, he had to put Isabelle out of mind, so he could concentrate on the feeling of soft grass under his shoe.

At the side of the fray, Isabelle’s frightened hands found their way to her sternum. She pressed them firmly against her breastbone, feeling her heart beat wildly like a fearful wild bird in a cage too small and unfamiliar. The gentle wind did nothing to wipe the little trickles of sweat collecting at her hairline and on the small of her back. Despite her silk gloves hugging her tightly, Isabelle’s palms were cold. Too cold. It was as though her bones were exposed to the elements.

She wanted Thomas to cover her bones and make her feel like a person again. She wanted to kiss Thomas’ hands and calm his soul.  
  
The officer stopped in his tracks, turning with his gun pointed with purpose. There was no tremor in his hands, and his back remained as rigid as the ancient building behind them. But Thomas kept going, putting one unaware foot in front of the other.

Eyes danced between the two men, no-one quite sure what to say or do. Even Francis had a look of anticipation on his face when he was usually so calm and stoic – the perfect foil for his wild cousin. He raised his hand to his face with quiet grace, pushing his thin wire spectacles up his slender nose, rose lips parted like he might let out a yelp.

The murmuring of the trees turned into the whispers of the guests, meeting the officer’s eyes as Thomas continued his pacing. A confused twist of the mouth and a resigned shrug – which took no more than a second, but to Isabelle, lasted a lifetime - shouted a terrifying solution. Every little movement of his body was a teasing taunt and not even her father’s hand on her shoulder could quell the rush of feeling building in her body.

“No…” she whispered, dropping her hands to her sides. Isabelle’s fingers wound themselves around the silk of her dress. The colour a perfect representation of how sick she was feeling. “No!”

Her voice didn’t feel like her own, and she could hear her strange syllables rattling around her head. Lady Harriet might as well have spoken – in fact, it could have been her. Isabelle didn’t think her voice was that fractured and ghostly, and she couldn’t believe that it might be. She’d always been so sure of things before.

At that moment, several things happened at once, all of which were contained in the same few precious seconds. The officer’s finger began to twitch around the trigger, the disembodied voice in Isabelle’s head shouted out once again, Thomas began to turn, and the world exploded into fast-moving colour that made Isabelle feel like the world was spinning off its axis. Greens, blues, and pink garish satins and taffetas all melted into a muted swirl like paint upon a canvas.

“Wait! He’s not ready!” cried Isabelle, her feet moving forward independently of her mind. Not even her father’s usually calming hand could keep her from running off in an uncouth and unladylike manner. “Thom-“

Echoes in the sky brought Isabelle to a standstill. The shot, having burst forth from the barrel, rang in everyone’s ears, sent everyone into a state of stunned flinches and sharp gasps. A nightingale let out a startled screech and took to the air, a single tail feather falling on to Thomas’ shoulder as his thoughts tried to catch up with the missing bullet.

He glanced at his wiry frame, dropping the gun with a clatter, running his palms over his body with a bleat of disbelieving laughter before the air was robbed from his lungs.

“Thomas…” Isabelle stammered; all colour had drained from her skin, so she looked like a piece of fine porcelain. She smiled at him, but her eyes were sparkling with apologies as her knees buckled underneath her skirts, sinking into the warm and gentle grass. The red jewels twinkling on her gloves and bodice were nowhere near as luxurious as the ones Lady Harriet was clutching to.

“Isabelle!”

Sound erupted like a volcano, spewing its choking ash over what had been an enjoyable day. Clouding everything.

Thomas fell forward too, his body reaching for Isabelle’s as her father shouted wildly for a doctor. No-one noticed Francis, looking on in horror, almost as white as Isabelle herself. He was rooted to his spot, unsure where to go or what to do.

“It’s okay,” Thomas said softly, quelling a more terrifying emotion than he wanted her to know about. He followed her to the ground, clutching the dissolving particles of her sugar soul and brushing her hair with his fingertips. “What were you thinking?”

Isabelle’s perfectly painted mouth broke into a smile, glad that Thomas’ warmth was leeching into her cool skin. “He shot before you were ready,” she said simply, feeling at home in his welling hazel stare. “It was unsporting.”

“Oh…Isabelle, my love,” Thomas said with a shaking voice, unsure whether to laugh or cry at her phrasing. It was so her to think of social convention before self-preservation and have it backfire. On more than one occasion, she had shamed a man for not dancing in public and had people whisper about her shameful display of emotion. “I would’ve taken that bullet willingly for you. I was going to.”

“But now you don’t have to,” she pointed out, pushing her gloved hand against the warm blood blooming from her abdomen like a rose in spring, trying to crush its petals. “You have so much to give, Thomas.”

Thomas nodded, smiling despite himself as he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “But I have so much less without you.”

“No,” she insisted, her hands sliding to Thomas’ arms, smearing his sleeves with blood as she held them to her. “Don’t ever say that. I love you because you are kind and loving, and so much more than you think you are.”

A tear fell on Isabelle’s cheek, but whose tear it was, neither party could be sure.

“I love you,” Thomas whispered. He didn’t see Francis quietly slip back into the house or Isabelle’s father approach. “We wasted too much time chasing each other.”

Isabelle nodded, a fairly-like titter escaping her throat. “It was fun, though, wasn’t it?”

“A doctor is coming, darling,” her father announced, kneeling at her side with a deep crease in his forehead. He and Thomas exchanged a tight glance – Thomas full of apology, and Higham with icy desperation. “We’ve sent a messenger.”

“A vicar too,” Isabelle breathed, holding up a weak finger to instruct her father and Thomas not to interrupt. “Marry me, Thomas. I can die a happy woman.”

Thomas’ mouth was drier than the wine they had been served, and for once, he was at a loss for words. All he could focus on was the growing mass of blood and the lock of his own hair that was ticking his eyeball. She struggled to keep her eyes open, and Thomas carefully pressed his fingers to her wrists, counting the slowing beats of a dying butterfly’s wings as it found somewhere beautiful to rest inside her veins.

Higham twisted his mouth at Thomas, his eyebrows knitting themselves into a silent question: _does she have time?_

“Yes, of course,” Thomas said, gently shaking his head at her father. He chewed on his bottom lip, picking at the dry skin there. “Nothing except your recovery could make me happier.”

At this, Higham got to his feet, racing across the garden as fast his ageing legs would carry him. All Thomas could do was murmur comforting words and hold her, hoping she would hear and feel everything. He even recited her favourite poem of his – Roger’s Torment – with a careful tongue until Higham returned with a guest whom he’d given a new jacket to and removed his cravat.

“The vicar has come, Isabelle!” Thomas said, carefully shifting himself so she could better see the man whom she no longer recognised. “We are to be wed like we’ve always dreamed.”

“At last!” she cried airily, reaching a bloodstained hand to Thomas’ cheek. “Twenty seconds of wedded bliss with you is better than a lifetime of nothing without you.”

Thomas choked back a smile and kissed her forehead again. This time, it felt like kissing cold, hard china. “Save your breath. You’ll need it for the ceremony.”

At this cue, the previously invisible guest began to recite a version of the ceremony he could remember from his own wedding – missing sections out, backtracking lines, and trying not to stare at the blood. But Isabelle didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. In her quietening mind, the tears she could hear were ones of joy, and the seeping blood was nothing more than thrown flower petals cascading over her.

“Thomas, will you have this woman to be your wedded wife?”

“I will,” he said, caressing her ghostly cheek.

“Isabelle, will you have this man to be your wedded husband?”

She nodded, barely able to whisper the words, but her face held the promise of a smile. “I will.”

The faux vicar forced out a smile of his own as he announced that they were now man and wife, eager to get away from the lie and the lingering stench of death. Not even the jasmine and roses growing in the bushes were enough to mask the faint tang of iron in the air.

“We may not be married in law,” she said, each syllable a gross effort, “but we are in the eyes of God.” She could not feel or see the guilt exchanged by the men involved. “And that is enough for me.”

With Thomas’ culpable and loving mouth on hers, she breathed her last, and the grounding comfort of her husband’s body began to slip away. She’d always had an idea of what death looked like and what the afterlife looked like – fluffy white clouds, harps, and angels with snow-tipped wings. Peace, quiet, and warm and welcoming light. She hoped there would be a path of violets and peonies to follow and that her mother would be waiting for her.

What she hadn’t expected was waking up above her body, hearing Thomas’ wracked sobs over her, as she was confronted by several figures. One of whom insisted that they were to be the best of friends.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This drabble was written as a request on Tumblr. You can find me and this work under user @annaobyrne.  
> If you want to request an AU drabble/one-shot, please leave me a message and I'll get back to you, though it may take a few days.
> 
> You can also find me on Twitter: @bethany1marie.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!


End file.
